I grabbed her, sat her on the side of my hip and thumped down 6 flights of stairs. She shrieked with laughter.

I raced towards the opposite building, slid open the door and… stared at the flight of stairs. But only for a split second, before quickly adjusting her higher on my hip and starting the climb.

8 flights of stairs and 14kg later, I set her down gasping, “You will have to walk now. Mummy can’t carry you anymore. I’M GOING TO DIE!”

She widened her eyes and stared at me. “Why are you going to die, Mummy?”

Huffing and puffing, I shooed her towards the entrance of her enrichment school.

“Why are you going to die, Mummy?” she persisted.

“Because I am!” I panted.

“But I don’t want you to die!” Her eyes welled up with tears.

I paused. She was truly distressed.

“Well, I’m not really going to die. I just mean, I can’t catch my breath.”

She knitted her brows. “Then why did you say you are going to die?”

“Figure of speech, babe. It’s a figure of speech. That means, I say I’m going to die, but what I really mean is that I can’t breathe. Because I carried you all the way up those flights of stairs, right?”

She stopped to think about it. Then she reached out and patted me on my leg, “It’s ok, Mummy.”

I smiled at her.

“You don’t die now. You die when I’m 7 years old, ok?”

“WHAT!”

“7 years old is really far away, right? You can die then. Because I won’t need you any more then. I’ll be able to take care of myself when I’m 7 years old. 7 years old is really big.”